


She would resemble you

by anythingbutgrief



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Fluff and Smut, Future Fic, M/M, Wedding Night, first legitimate attempt at smut. i'm so sorry, fluffy happiness, i have no excuse for myself, this is a mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-16
Updated: 2014-04-16
Packaged: 2018-01-19 14:36:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1473352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anythingbutgrief/pseuds/anythingbutgrief
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"If the moon smiled, she would resemble you. You leave the same impression, of something beautiful, but annihilating." Mickey gives Ian a gift on their wedding night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	She would resemble you

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for descriptions of sex, as well as some descriptions of trauma from rape and abuse.

“I can’t  _believe_  you’re not gonna let me carry you in bridal-style,” Ian whined as he swiped the key card through the slot on the door.

“Hardy har har...Hey, so, I got you something,” Mickey said once Ian closed the door to their hotel room behind them. 

Ian grinned and wrapped his hands around the span of Mickey’s waist. “ _Yeah_ , you did,” he said, leaning down to kiss the vein in Mickey’s neck.

Mickey huffed out a laugh as one of Ian’s hands traveled to work at the top button of his dress shirt to reveal more skin. Ian’s tongue was wet and soft against his pulse, but Mickey felt it speed up just the same when he thought of the words he had to shove out of his mouth. Of  _course_  he already had the big public declaration hours ago and still wasn’t over his stupid nerves.

“Something else, then,” he forced out, pulling away from Ian’s grasp to dig through his pockets. He pulled the stupid things out and gestured for Ian to offer his hand out, quickly dropping one of them into his open palm. “There.” 

Mickey watched Ian’s face get serious, drawn with some sober realization, as he stared down at the ring for a minute before saying, “I thought you said—I thought you didn’t want to do the ring thing.”

He shrugged, but his blood was still stupidly pounding. “I knew you wanted them, so.” Mickey held his ring between a thumb and forefinger, waving it around for Ian to see. 

Ian’s face softened, and he stepped closer, but he didn’t smile like Mickey was expecting him to. “Mickey.” His tone sounded vaguely like a rebuke, but his hand slid inside Mickey’s jacket to get closer to his waist.

Mickey felt his face grow hot, somewhere between embarrassment and arousal, and muttered, “I just didn’t want to do the stupid ring part of the ceremony, you know.”

Ian looked down at the ring still in Mickey’s hand, and Mickey could tell he was considering his words carefully. “I don’t want you to wear one if you don’t really want to. You know, that’s kind of the whole point, that you want to.”

Months ago Mickey had scoffed at Ian’s suggestion, but he’d registered the flash of hurt on Ian’s face, knew that Ian probably thought Mickey didn’t want to wear any sign of belonging to someone. Somehow he knew that saying, “I want to because you want to” would be good enough now, even if it were true. He swallowed against the lump at the back of his throat, and opened his mouth to speak, but stared up at Ian for a minute, maybe hoping that he’d bail him out with a kiss, with more foreplay and then, you know,  _normal_  after-wedding activities. But no. Only  _they_  could have require a conversation like this on a night like this. “I didn’t like the last one I had,” he finally said, looking straight across at Ian’s neck rather than up toward his eyes.

“Your last ring?” Ian prompted softly after a pause.

Mickey nodded. “The last time I wore it, it—it was a bad day.”

“When?”

“You know when,” Mickey shot back. He brought his empty hand up to press lightly against Ian’s chest, just a touch, but it was enough to find his heart pounding. Feeling Ian get nervous made him less, for whatever reason, like there was only room for one of them to freak out at any given moment. “I woke up the next morning and it felt too tight, so I took it off and put it on the dresser behind my bed. But then, I’d wake up every other morning and see it there, too. All those months.”

He put the ring back in his pocket to free his other hand to wrap around Ian’s waist, too, still not looking at him.  _Those months._ It was Mickey’s verbal shorthand for “those months you were gone,” which still hurt to think no matter how far away from them they got. Those months when he’d jolt himself awake with the taste of blood in his mouth and the cold texture of a phantom gun against his head. Sometimes that still happened, even now, and Mickey would bolt upright and clench his fists against his eyes and gasp desperately for a breath that threatened never to arrive, but when it did Ian would slink out of bed without a word to get him a glass of water. Mickey knew that he did that because Ian knew that Mickey couldn’t be touched when he was like that, but they’d never talk about it. Ian would just come stand by the bed with the water ready, handing it to Mickey after a minute and rubbing slow gentle circles onto his back once his breath evened out. It was better, with Ian around. Maybe the same would hold true for the ring.

He cleared his throat now. “This one is different, though, so. You still want it?” Mickey finally looked up to meet Ian’s eyes, finding them wet and sparkling. “Fuck, Ian, don’t cry.” He brought his hand up to stroke his cheek and inwardly cursed himself. He should have known better than to bring up those months on their goddamn wedding night.

“I’m not crying,” Ian laughed, even though his eyes shone. “I’m not. I’m happy.”  He sniffed, hard, but a tear fell down his cheek and caught on Mickey’s hand. Ian smiled wider and added, “Okay, maybe I am crying, but it’s not—not in a bad way.” He gestured with the ring in his hand. “You wanna—can I put yours on you and then you…?”

Mickey nodded quickly and retrieved the ring from his pocket, trading with Ian. But when he tried to grab for his hand, Ian curled his fingers around his palm, stilling him. “Wait, let me—I want to do something first.” Ian’s hand skimmed over the back of Mickey’s, up his arm, then joined his other hand at Mickey’s waist to slowly pull the jacket from his body.

“What’re you doing?” Mickey murmured as Ian leaned in to brush kisses against his jaw.

 He could feel Ian’s smile against his chin. “Want to get you naked first.”

Mickey swallowed, then mirrored Ian, pushing his face into his neck as he messed pried the jacket from his torso then set to undoing the buttons on his shirt, Ian’s ring looped on the first knuckle of middle finger as he went down the line. “You’re such a weirdo.”

“You knew what you were getting yourself into,” Ian murmured back, pausing to rub the heel of his hand against the exposed skin of Mickey’s chest.

Mickey stripped the shirt from Ian’s body and moved his empty hand to cradle his head, catching his lips and the tiny, almost inaudible gasp that left them when his other hand began unlooping his belt.

Even with two hands, Ian was slower at getting his pants down than Mickey, somehow more patient at his most eager than Mickey at his least. Ian had stepped out of his own pants and slid his tongue into Mickey’s mouth before he had the other man’s belt fully off. Mickey would have complained at the slow pace, if he didn’t have Ian’s naked body under his hands, warm and hard and practically buzzing. He moved his hands from Ian’s hair, to his neck, down the column of his spine, to cup his ass and knead it between his palms. That gave Ian the encouragement he needed to strip Mickey’s bottom half with more speed, and Mickey stepped out of the last of his clothes as soon as possible, guiding Ian in the direction of the bed without breaking their lips apart. As soon as Mickey’s knees knocked into the bed, though, Ian pulled his face away suddenly, leaving Mickey kissing empty air. “Rings,” Ian said with a small smile, bringing Mickey’s ring close for him to look.

“I know what it looks like, I fucking bought it,” Mickey said, but he stared at it, now, in between Ian’s thumb and forefinger, like it was the first time. He brought up Ian’s and knocked the rings together, trying to be playful, but it was too soft for that, and the way Ian was looking at them, like he was going to cry again, made Mickey’s stomach flutter. It was stupid, it was so stupid, and he had no business feeling so nervous about it, but Ian grabbing his left hand didn’t help matters any. But if his fingers shook, Ian didn’t comment on it, just looked intently, intensely as he slid the ring into place.  And if Mickey could feel Ian’s pulse pound within his fingers as he did the same for Ian’s ring, he wouldn’t do anything but file the memory away for later.  Maybe there was something silently understood, about why this needed to happen here, alone together, about why it needed to happen just like this, about how they were making it a part of their skin, but neither said anything and neither wanted to.

“Now can we fuck?” Mickey asked, trying for lightness, but his voice still shook.

 Ian chuckled, low, wet-sounding. “Yeah, now that I’ve made an honest man out of you.” 

Mickey expected Ian to tackle him to the bed then, or at least resume making out with equal fervor, but he slowed, hands carefully framing Mickey’s waist, head ducking to suckle softly against Mickey’s neck, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses all around his collarbones. The gesture weakened Mickey’s knees, so he grasped at Ian’s neck and pulled him down as he fell onto the bed, tugging them up to the pillows even as Ian kept his lips latched to Mickey’s skin.

Mickey traced shapes into the skin of Ian’s back, freezing halfway through a circle and shivering when Ian bit into the skin of his shoulder, right where the muscle was toughest. He felt Ian suck at the bite and could practically feel the mark forming, the thought making him feel treasured, desperate, safe, all at once, and he arched his hips to brush his cock against Ian’s. Ian moaned into his skin, slipping his head down to kiss Mickey’s chest, his nipples, his belly, smiling as Mickey quivered from the tickles. And maybe because Mickey wanted to replace that smile with something else, maybe because he loved how it looked too much and wanted to keep it there, he stilled Ian with a hand on the back of his neck before flipping him over and beginning to lick slow, deliberate lines down Ian’s abs. Mickey had shit for patience, couldn’t get himself to slow down considerably, pressing hard, insistent kisses up from Ian’s belly button to his neck, down to Ian’s hipbones and thighs.

But as always, whenever Mickey got to his favorite part of Ian (well, second-favorite, he grudgingly admitted. Nothing ever really beat Ian’s smile), the hurry in him stilled, replaced with a certain calm that was no less desperate for being deliberate. He gripped Ian’s dick in a loose fist, gave him a few exploratory jerks, liking how he could hear Ian’s breath hitch in the quiet of the room, before lowering his mouth to wetly kiss the skin of his dick.

Sometimes Mickey worried that Ian would get bored of his gentle, thoughtful licks, each time like it was the first, each time like he was exploring uncharted territory.  But each time Ian would lean his head back, neck pulsing with his frantic inhales like Mickey’s tongue was drawing the air out of his body. Mickey loved the taste of his skin, loved feeling the ridges and edges of him so close, loved gripping him by the thighs and lightly running the edges of his short nails up his skin, around his hips, down to his knees and back again.

Mickey finally sunk the head of Ian’s dick all the way in his mouth, tongue teasing the slit for a minute before circling slowly, clockwise and counterclockwise. He glanced up Ian’s body, seeing him clench and unclench his fists into the sheets, and hummed thoughtfully until Ian lifted his chin enough to look down at him. Mickey swiped his tongue in a few faster circles with their eyes locked, feeling this surge of pride as Ian’s eyes steadily glowed brighter with each movement of Mickey’s tongue.

“So good,” Ian whispered, gracelessly slapping his hand from the sheets to the skin of Mickey’s arm, trying and failing to pet him. It just made Mickey smile around the head of Ian’s dick, which grew when he felt the unmistakable cold texture of the ring press against his shoulder.

Mickey lowered his mouth another inch more but held still, even at Ian’s impatient groan, then began to hum again, more purposefully this time. “Hm-hm-hm-hm. Hm-hm-hm-hm. Hm-HM-hm-HM-hm-HM-hm-HM-hm- _hmmmmmm_."

Ian’s sputter of laughter moved his dick forward another few centimeters into Mickey’s mouth. “Did you—is that the Wedding March? Only you would hum the Wedding March around my cock.”

Mickey pulled back but paused to lick a line up Ian’s shaft before responding. “You don’t like my voice?”

“I love it,” Ian said, a little too seriously, and Mickey sank back down, this time bringing his hand up to tickle against Ian’s sack as he went deeper than before, falling into a steady rhythm, his other hand slowly jacking the last uncovered inch of Ian’s dick at the base as most of the shaft slickly pushed in and out of his face. Mickey’s lips and cheeks and chin had already gotten damp with spit and precome by the time he felt Ian’s hand knock against his neck with purpose. 

“Stop, stop,” Ian said above him, voice already sounded wrecked as he tugged gently on Mickey’s hair. Mickey pulled off and wiped at his mouth, then leaned his chin on the top of Ian’s thigh, questioning with his eyes. Ian huffed out a breath and shook his head, fingers threading through Mickey’s hair. “Just—give me a minute. I don’t wanna….not yet.”

“You don’t wanna come in my mouth, man?” Mickey asked, mock-offended.

Ian’s head flopped back onto the pillow, and Mickey felt him laugh before he heard him, vibrations shaking his body. “Was planning on saving it for another place.”

Mickey climbed up Ian’s body, dropping soft, less ferocious kisses on his chest and shoulders and chin before bracing himself on his elbows on either side of Ian’s head. Ian grinned up at him, still catching his breath for a minute, before flipping him over to pin him to the bed, pulling away for a few seconds to retrieve the lube from his pockets in the pants on the floor, before quickly ducking down to address Mickey’s lower half.

Ian paused to kiss and lick lightly at Mickey’s dick, but they were sweet, small, measured acts of affection, and Mickey felt a warmth that was more affection than arousal. There was enough of the latter a second later, feeling Ian’s slicked-up fingers brush against and then into his hole.

Mickey gasped and arched into his touch, welcoming Ian’s mouth on his chin and cheeks and finally lips as his fingers stretched him with the confidence of years’ experience, scissoring and twisting and pumping in and out, stopping to add more lube before adding a third. That had Mickey whimpering, wrapping an arm around Ian’s neck to keep him in place as he sloppily kissed him, thrusting his hips up until Ian’s fingers brushed that special spot inside him. “Come on, come on, come on, come on,” he whispered into his mouth, licking at his bottom lip, wrapping his legs around Ian’s waist as soon as his fingers abandoned him. “Come on, Ian, come on.”

Ian pulled just far enough away to slick himself up, bringing his mouth back home as soon as possible to slip his tongue inside Mickey the same moment his dick did. When he pushed inside, giving Mickey that sweet full familiarity, somehow the first thought, the first thing other than the requisite “Holy  _fuck_ ,” was this odd disbelief, that they’d only just gotten married that day, when they’d been doing this for years, when Mickey had been feeling this  _for years._  He’d been married to him for longer than he even knew.

Then Ian began thrusting, those careful measured hard pushes and slow pulls, and coherent thought dissipated like the smoke it was.

“Mmnf,” Mickey groaned a few minutes in, bucking his hips up harder, aware that Ian was avoiding pressing against his prostate too soon on purpose. “That all you got?”

Ian panted out something approximating laughter as he pushed a hard kiss onto Mickey’s open mouth. “You  _really_  think that still works on me?”

“Is that a no, then?”

The way the moonlight cut through the blinds caught onto Ian’s teeth right above him, looking impossibly sharp in their curved smile, like Mickey’d wedded himself to a wolf in a sweet man’s skin.  _You did,_  some voice inside him whispered, and he grinned at that, bared his neck for those teeth to taste at the same moment that Ian snapped his hips more forcefully than before. “Shit!”

“Deep enough for you?” Mickey didn’t bother answering and instead clutched at Ian’s already sweat-damp hair and pulled him until he could feel those teeth graze his collarbone. He turned his own face to lick at Ian’s ear, his chin, his neck, tasting the salt of skin and wanting more,  _more_ ,  _more_ , biting at him, wanting to claw inside in every way he could. He felt Ian adjust, pointing himself to brush up against the right spot inside Mickey, and his rhythm lost its control, but it didn’t matter, not when Ian’s hands found Mickey’s and clutched at his fingers, pinning them above Mickey’s head.

“Fucking—love—goddamn it,” Ian panted out, voice sounded ragged and torn next to Mickey’s ear, and Mickey would have laughed if his own throat wasn’t burning, but he didn’t care. He breathed harder and welcomed that copper taste in his mouth when he sucked against Ian’s jaw, inhaling his skin like it was oxygen. Maybe it was.

He gripped at the tangle of fingers above his head, hard, hard enough that it had to hurt, hard enough that blood could be pooling along with the sweat for all Mickey knew, but he needed Ian to know, he needed to be able to say, “‘Fucking—love—goddamn it,’ too,” but he didn’t have the breath for it. His flesh would have to do. He arched up harder, thrusting his dick against Ian’s sweaty stomach, harder, faster, syncing up with the warm pressure pushing in and out of him, more and more until his spine stiffened, every muscle clenched, and the warmth in his stomach built until he came in a spatter against Ian’s stomach.

Mickey felt boneless, all content fluid against the sheets, even as he felt Ian still thrusting inside him. Mickey looked up to see his face, his forehead all scrunched up in concentration and desperation, and re-tightened his legs around his waist and his ass around his cock, thrusting back as best he could without the use of his bones.

“Fuck, Mick, I—” Ian buried his head in Mickey’s neck and bit, less fiercely than before, as he thrust once, twice, three more times into his body before stilling and collapsing.

Mickey kept his legs around him, holding him in close, for at least a full minute before he realized his hands were still tied up with Ian’s. He ran a finger along Ian’s knuckles, testing, and he could tell from the feeling of Ian’s smile against his neck that he hadn’t noticed, either. Now Ian loosened his grip but didn’t pull away, stroking his fingers up and down Mickey’s palms, reawakening the nerves back to life. They stayed like that, stuck together, until the heat became unbearable, and then a few minutes beyond that. Ian finally pulled away, off to the side, but kept his ankle linked around Mickey’s as they caught their breath.

“Wanna hear something stupid?” Ian whispered after a few moments.

 Mickey leaned up on his elbows to stare down at him. “Sure.”

“Okay. Well, I don’t like to brag, but—“

Mickey cut in, “Shut up. You fucking love to brag.”

“Not as much as you,” Ian shot back.

“True.”

Ian rolled his eyes and scoffed without venom. “As I was fucking saying. I don’t like to brag, but I think it’s safe to say I know you more than anyone else in the world does.”

Mickey didn’t say anything, thumbing at the blanket underneath them nervously instead.

“But. I still wanna know more.” Ian’s grin, when Mickey finally gathered the guts to look at him, could have made the moon jealous if Ian was facing that way.

“Like what?”

Ian looked away, as if he was considering the question. “Like……what’s your favorite dream that you’ve ever had?”

Mickey didn’t dream. Well, no, that was a lie. But he wasn’t in the practice of remembering when he did. He’d gotten into the habit of shoving away whatever warm thick haze of a lie his brain would create during the night when morning came. He thought of the fragments of things he’d shoved away—shiny new bicycles, freshly mowed grass on the baseball pitch, the sound of his mother’s voice, saying things she’d never said. He thought of things he hadn’t been able to shove away, the slow but certain accumulation of dread at puberty when he’d awake from dreams of boys touching him. He thought of his least favorite dream, from those bad months, of Ian’s body in a ditch, cold and empty, and the thought made him grasp at Ian now, grab onto both wrists to feel his pulse, look into his eyes and see the glint of the smile within. His best dream? 

“What’s your favorite dream?" Ian repeated, a gentle murmur. 

Mickey slipped his hands slowly down from Ian’s wrists to his fingers, stroking over the knuckles and smiling at the feel of the cold metal of the ring. "This."

He chanced a look at Ian’s face and tried not to let his breath catch at the sight of Ian’s jaw dropped open and his eyes wide, face looking raw and ripped-up from feeling too much. And beautiful, so beautiful. "It’s  _this_.”

**Author's Note:**

> The title quote comes from the Sylvia Plath poem "The Rival" from the collection Ariel.
> 
> And I somehow in my sleep-deprived state when I originally published this referred to Sylvia as "Ariel Plath." Yeah. Just wow. Nobody hates me the way I hate me for that typo, trust me.


End file.
